


A Work of Art

by Livingonaprayerstiel



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, body painting, feeings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:57:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2358716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Livingonaprayerstiel/pseuds/Livingonaprayerstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What starts as just Steve running his hands over Bucky quickly evolved into an artistic outlet for all their love and pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Work of Art

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a response to a post on Tumblr by user Nerdyholler.  
> Imported from my ff.net account LylyWeasley. Find me on tumblr as Livingonaprayerstiel

It starts as nothing more than an absentminded thing. Bucky is lying on the living room floor on his stomach, pillows propped under his chin. He's not even sure what he's watching, to be honest. When Steve gets home, he sits on the floor beside Bucky and sets a hand on his back. As they sit in silence, Steve runs his hand over the contours of Bucky's back, causing a shiver to run through him. Bucky's shirt gets rumpled up beneath Steve's palm and so, gently, wordlessly, he rucks it up so that the plains of Bucky's muscular back are exposed. Without saying anything, Steve begins to trace over the divots of the muscles and scars that expand across and under the skin. Every few minutes, the movement of Steve's fingers on Bucky's back are interrupted by the soft press of Steve's lips. First, to his flesh and blood shoulder, then to the seam of metal and flesh on his left. Finally, to the middle of his spine.

"What are you doing?" Bucky asked softly, after what felt like hours of Steve's methodical tracing.

"Do you want me to stop?" Steve answered, his fingers faltering slightly.

"No..." Bucky breathed quickly, "It feels nice. Just curious."  
Steve hummed an acknowledgment, his hands moving once more, "I'm drawing."

Bucky closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders back, "Drawing what? There ain't nothing there."

The sound of Steve's chuckle sent a burst of warmth through Bucky's body, "It's there, in my head. I'm drawing a portrait... You."

Furrowing his brow, Bucky turned his head to the side, catching a glimpse of Steve. He was frowning in concentration, his tongue poking out between his teeth. Bucky loved how Steve looked when he was really into a drawing. For a moment, he could almost see the smaller Steve. The one from a lifetime ago. It was as close as he got to really remembering. Even now, a year after Hydra had fallen, the memories were not as many nor as clear as he would have liked. He knew Steve, their history both as friends and lovers, and who he had been. Sometimes, when they made love he could feel the frail frame of Steve's other body beneath his hands. But, these flashes while Steve drew were the clearest it ever got. And here, under the careful scrutiny of those sparkling blue eyes, Bucky felt whole.

He sighed, "I ain't much to draw, to be honest. Not much to look at either," he drawled, accidentally letting a bit of his old Brooklyn accent slide through.

"Oh Buck," Steve said. He nudged Bucky, giving him a hint to flip over. After he was on his back, Steve let his hands roam over Bucky's chest. "You," he began, drawing a line with his finger from Bucky's sternum down to his navel, "are the most beautiful person on this earth." He splayed his hands over Bucky's pectorals, feeling the thumping of his heart and the ripple of his muscles. Bucky inhaled sharply. Steve was looking at him as though he was precious, sacred even. When he spoke again, it was nearly a whisper, "You are my favorite subject to draw..." he leaned in close, his lips brushing Bucky's ear, "Also, my new favorite canvas."

It became a nightly thing after that. Sometimes, Steve would join Bucky in the living room, stripping him of his shirt, and just running his hands over him. Other times, Bucky would simply walk, shirtless, into whatever room Steve was in. Mostly, they laid in bed, Bucky stark naked, while Steve ran his fingers all over him. Sometimes Steve would draw intently and, others, he would simply let his fingers slide lazily over Bucky's skin. Whatever kind of touch it was, it made Bucky feel warm, warmer than he'd felt in years. After so much time in cryo, his body ran colder than normal. But, under Steve's gentle touch, it felt as though he had a fire rolling in his core. It was comforting.

On Steve's birthday, Bucky was almost shaking with anticipation. He wanted to give Steve his present, but he wasn't home yet. It was just like Director Fury to send Captain America out on his birthday. Bucky didn't care if it was also the most patriotic holiday, this simply wasn't fair.

It was eleven thirty when the door opened and Steve walked in. He was still wearing his uniform, but his smile was wide. Bucky got up from the couch, wrapped his arms around Steve, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, "Happy birthday, Captain Rogers," he whispered.

"Thank you, Sergeant Barnes," Steve replied, kissing him again, "I got sung to more times than I can count today."

"Good thing, too," Bucky chuckled, "'Cause I can't sing for shit." He stepped back, reaching for the wrapped box by the couch. He held it out to Steve, "Happy birthday, buddy. It's-" he faltered as Steve smiled, beginning to open the box, "It's kind of a selfish gift but, I hope you like it."

"I'll like anything if it's from you, Buck. Thank you," he glanced in the box and furrowed his brow. Slowly, he pulled out another box with the label 'Body Paint' printed boldly across the front. His eyes widened and he blushed so red that he matched the stripes of his uniform. "Bucky," Steve looked up at him, "So I can... to you?"

Bucky nodded, "Told you it was selfish. If you don't want to, it's-" but the rest of his sentence was lost as Steve crossed to him and began to lift the hem of his shirt.

"I want to," Steve breathed, yanking off Bucky's shirt and starting to undo his uniform, "Right now."

Smiling, Bucky helped Steve with all the buckles until he was just in his boxers and undershirt. "Where do you want me?"

"On your stomach, right here. Arms outstretched," Steve said at once.

Bucky smirked, "Okay, Captain Bossy." But he did what he was told. Once on the carpet, he saw Steve take out the black paint and a small brush. "What are you gonna do?"

Steve only shook his head slightly and sat cross legged beside him. He dipped the small brush into the black paint. When he began running the small brush over Bucky's shoulders, he gasped. The paint was cold, but it felt good. Steve worked from the middle of his back, outwards, first his left and then his right. He painted down to the elbows, blowing gently to dry the paint before setting his arms back on the carpet. Once he was done with the outline of whatever he was doing, Steve picked out some colors and a larger brush. Bucky found it difficult not to be lulled to sleep by the almost rhythmic stroke of the brush along his back.

A soft touch at the back of is neck caused Bucky to come back to attention, "Hey," Steve said softly, "I'm done. Do you wanna see?"

"Mmm," Bucky hummed, nodding sleepily and standing up, "How am I gonna see it?"

"Just hold out your arms," Steve said, flicking on the lights, "and I'll snap a picture."

Yawning, Bucky held out his arms to each side. He heard the shutter sound of Steve's phone and turned back to face him. Steve was beaming, blue eyes sparkling. Bucky took the phone from him and felt all sleepiness drain away as he took in Steve's handiwork. Expanding across his back and down his arms were a pair of red and blue wings. Each feather was drawn in detail and shaded as the blue in the middle of his back faded down to red on his arms. The paint even showed up well on the metal of his left arm.

He looked up at Steve, who looked apprehensive for Bucky's reaction. "Stevie," he gasped, "This is fucking amazing."

Steve's smile spread over his face again, "You like it?" Bucky nodded, "I'm gonna get a polaroid camera so I can hang the pictures of everything I paint on you."

"That sounds like a great idea," Bucky replied.

Steve cradled Bucky's face in his hands and kissed him sweetly, "You can go take a shower. I'm gonna print this picture."

In the shower, Bucky was fascinated by how the colors flowed down his body and into the drain. The red, blue, and black still looked so beautiful. He was Steve's work of art now. And, somehow, that feeling didn't go away, even as all evidence that the paint was ever there disappeared.

The mural of photographs on the wall of Steve and Bucky's room expanded every day. Any evening they had to themselves was spent with Steve painting Bucky's bare torso. Once, Steve painted "Starry Night" by VanGogh onto him. The only bit of his upper body that was left unpainted was his neck and face. That had taken four photographs to capture. Another time, Steve had sketched the New York skyline, as they had known it growing up, onto his back. Bucky loved the feeling of Steve's hand smudging the paint for shading, as well as the quick precision of the sketching itself.

The painting didn't stay confined to Bucky's upper body for long, either. Soon, Steve had him sitting in his boxers or standing as Steve painted his legs. One evening, Steve painted the entirety of Coney Island on every bit of bare skin he could reach. There were ten photos of that one, with close-ups on the moon, the Ferris wheel, and the two of them, sitting atop it. Some nights, they would barely finish documenting a painting before Steve would pull Bucky into a ferocious kiss, running his hands over the barely dry paint and getting it all over his white undershirt. They would talk and laugh as Steve was working, relishing this time that was theirs.

It was a brisk evening in January when Steve stomped through the door, expression pained. It was instantly clear to Bucky that something was wrong, "Hey," he whispered, putting a hand to Steve's shoulder, "You okay, buddy?"

Steve looked from the hand on his shoulder to Bucky's eyes. Bucky's stomach dropped. The sparkle that was usually present in his blue eyes was gone. Steve's eyes were dull, lifeless almost. Bucky furrowed his brow. He didn't want to push, but this was worrying behavior from someone as upbeat as Steve.

Wordlessly, Steve grabbed the hem of Bucky's shirt and lifted it over his head. Bucky watched in equal silence as Steve removed his own shirt as well. He reached out, but Steve walked right past him and sat down on the floor in the living room. Understanding, Bucky walked into the room and sat facing Steve. There were five colors between them: black, brown, grey, dark green, and red. And there were no brushes in sight.

"Steve..." Bucky began again, but Steve shook is head curtly, mouth pressed into a thin line. Bucky took that as the cue that Steve was really not in a talking mood. He needed to vent his feelings and Bucky was willing to be the canvas them.

That night, the mood in the air was somber as Steve opened his paints. He dipped his fingers into the different colors and applied them to Bucky's skin in imprecise, almost angry strokes. He put different colored handprint and smears all over Bucky's torso, splattering the paint back onto himself. When Steve finally opened up the red paint, Bucky saw that there were tears in Steve's eyes. Steve put a generous coat of red paint over the palm of his own hand and planted it right over Bucky's heart. Then, he grabbed Bucky's left hand, painting the palm of the metal red. Finally, he lifted the hand and Bucky watched, wide eyed, as Steve placed Bucky's hand over his own heart. He let Bucky's hand drop limply as the tears in his eyes fell over his cheeks. Bucky was stunned. Steve was just sitting there, sobbing. He looked down at this chest. The mixture looked smokey, except for the green. The green resembled the color of his old army uniform. But, what really drew his eye was Steve's red handprint. He felt Steve take his hand gently and Bucky looked back up to meet his gaze.

"Sorry," Steve whimpered, tears still falling steadily, "I'm okay. Sorry for scaring you."

"What's wrong?" Bucky asked softly.

Steve pursed his lips, trying to stop the tears, to no avail, "You fell. Seventy-one years ago today. I don't know why it hit me so hard. You're back," he let out a choked sob, "I have you. But... we were robbed of something, Buck. And we can't ever get that time back."

Bucky looked back down at Steve's handiwork. He could see the smoke billowing from the train, the green of his uniform and the trees rushing by, the pale snow and blood from his arm. It wasn't until a tear hit his chest that he realized he was crying too. He looked back up at Steve, "You're right. We can't get it back. And honestly, we're both fucked up from all of it. Hell, I don't remember enough to know that it's today. Otherwise, I woulda said somethin' to you this morning. But," he ran his clean hand through Steve's hair, "We got each other now and... damn, if I'm not gonna make the most of it."

Steve smiled through his tears, "I know we usually take pictures but... I'd rather not remember."

Bucky nodded, grabbing Steve by the hand and dragging him to his feet. They walked in silence to the bathroom, undressing one another reverently. They held one another under the hot water, watching the grey's, blacks, and red mix into a pool at their feet and wash down the drain. As their lips and fingers traced over the other's skin lightly, they both felt as though, when the paint was gone, the pain would be too. And they'd only be left with each other, now and forever.


End file.
